


Dereliction

by write_light



Series: Dark Heat [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-18
Updated: 2007-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_light/pseuds/write_light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam spend a lot of time looking at each other, but not seeing much.  Dean does things he really isn't proud of, to keep the need at bay; Sammy wastes the hot water, for much the same reason.  And motels suck.</p><p><b>Teaser: </b> He tried to wash the bitter, cedary odor off, legs spread awkwardly over the tiny motel sink, burned by the porcelain when he got too close, boots too loud on the tile floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dereliction

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a trio of stories, including "Dereliction" and "Dark Heat".

__Sam moved his feet slowly down into the icy end of the bed, a cold cotton sheet and a bedspread almost as thin offering no help, no comfort, barely there.  Dean sure looked comfortable, at least from the back.  He wasn't asleep either.  Sam had always known if Dean was asleep or awake. The long, deep rush of air that came after Dean's guard slipped and his mind let go was as much a comfort as the wet-dog sound of him shaking himself awake.

Sam shivered in the stale room, in his narrow bed, wishing he could just climb in with Dean and warm up.  Dean's back revealed two things: he wasn't angry, and he wasn't the least bit cold.  Sam worked on getting him to turn over, so he could see his face.  He relaxed and breathed slower, keeping one eye on Dean's back.  He closed both eyes tightly when Dean's arm jerked, then opened one again – Dean hadn't rolled over.  He feigned sleep again.  And then, in about 5 seconds, Sam was out.

A smile flickered over Dean's face.  More than half the time, Sam fell asleep first.  Dean lay there for a quarter hour more before he got up, still dressed, and slipped out the door.

***

Dean returned almost five hours later, his crotch smelling strongly of cologne from the face and hands that had been all over it. Sam was snoring, and Dean was getting hard again, his own proximity alarm.  He tried to wash the bitter, cedary odor off, legs spread awkwardly over the tiny motel sink, burned by the freezing porcelain when he got too close, boots too loud on the tile floor.

He took his boots off in slow motion, then his coat and pants, to focus himself, to keep Sam from waking up, while his underwear clung just below his knees.  He pushed the underwear into a sticky wad at the bottom of the wastebasket behind the toilet, covered it with the towel they'd bloodied fixing the cut on Sam's arm, and moved silently into the room to find his spare pair.  It soaked up most of the water on him and clung to him, staining dark.  He slid onto the mattress and shook from the cold till he passed out.

Sam woke at 6:00 and looked over at Dean. He saw a tight ball, and a back that revealed, now, a burden.  He moved quietly around to the other side, pulling the scratchy, stained flowers of the bedspread around him as a faint cover against the chill in the room.  Kneeling by Dean's bed, he sat back on his heels and waited.  And watched. 

What else was there, but this?  
   
   
***

By 6:29, Sam had his chin in both hands and was gazing at Dean, lost in his third-favorite daydream, his legs frozen, locked in a squat, and at 6:30 Dean's eyes popped open.  Sam fell back as his legs failed to respond and whacked his head on the wall with a firm "clonk".  Dean laughed at this, a broad grin on his face, but only until Sam swung a hand at his head.    He turned, in his bedspread robe, hiding what needed hiding, and ducked into the bathroom in search of a hot shower, knowing Dean wouldn't follow.

The bathroom stank, of the mildew creeping out of the corners, and year after year of fluids spilled, feeding it, and… a revolting cologne he hadn't noticed before.  Dean burned red when Sam asked if the smell was some new scent he was trying out, and he didn't respond.  He was having trouble blocking the memory of how good it had felt, getting close to someone unknown.  No need for bonds or cares or someone else to watch over.  A stranger who knelt before him and his needs, and understood.  Someone tall, with dark hair, but the wrong eyes, and no real talent for it, and who was not Sam.

He managed to keep up a stupid conversation with Sam yelling to him from the shower about something he couldn't quite figure out.  Sam had found the hot water to be hot, a minor miracle, and was braced, one hand against the wall, one hand working, scalding water on his back, over his cheeks, down his legs, his mind focused on one sound: Dean's voice.  The longer Dean talked to him, the faster he could go, and when Dean stopped talking, just as Sam came, he had to bury his face in his shoulder to keep Dean outside.

***

The next morning, two states farther, Dean was dreaming of Dad and woke up feeling as lost as John had been in the dream.  Sam was to his right, the anchor to reality, and had pulled his covers up to his chin.  Fucking cheap motels had no insulation, no real heat, no…touch of home.  This one had only two dirty blankets, which competed at suggesting the presence of crawling things.  Sam was facing him, jaw slack, breath deep and smooth, a sense of worry intruding around his eyes.

Dean watched Sam for nearly an hour that morning, the hair hanging in his face, the soft pulse in his lips, the drool soaking into the pillow, and he entertained several very foolish ideas, all involving his tongue, that would be very hard to explain to Sam if he woke up in the middle of it all.  The one that hung around the longest involved the drool, and slipping his tongue between cheek and pillow, returning the saliva toward those lips, into a mouth he….   It would mean he had Sammy, for himself, for good.

That night, he fell back into the same vision, licking into Sam's mouth, and came so quickly that the guy booted him out the door and cursed him as he drove off.  The realization of how far away he'd gotten was pulling at him.  This was dereliction.  He drove back well over the limit and angry in six different ways, and opened the motel door to Sam's panicked face and a gun barrel. 

What else was there, but this?

  
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Amazing artwork by [](http://planetfairy.livejournal.com/profile)[**planetfairy**](http://planetfairy.livejournal.com/) \- not originally for this story but a perfect vision of the Dean/OMC moments.


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